


Dancing in 4/4

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Series: Put a Record On [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Store, Band Fic, Fluff, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Musicians, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 14:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: After a horrifically embarrassing encounter with the lead singer of one of his favorite bands three weeks back, Dave somehow scores a date with him.And, despite their lack of a reservation ruining their chances of a fancy night out, things go a lot better than Dave could've ever expected them to.





	Dancing in 4/4

It’s been three weeks since the lead vocalist of one of my favorite alternative bands, Karkat Vantas, wandered into the record store I cashier – and three weeks since I insulted his latest album right to his face. Though it had felt like the entire world ended in that moment, it didn’t actually change much for the worse. In fact, it only seemed to improve things, surprisingly.

I tap my fingers on the counter to the beat of the song playing, something by Robert DeLong, and feel a smile creep onto my face as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

“Do you want a bag for this, my guy?” I ask the customer standing in front of me. He’s very much the type to shop at a place like this; he’s wearing a thin, grey beanie, a hand-printed t-shirt with some obscure band on it, and black skinny jeans. He’s probably a couple years older than I am, but he’s clearly trying to seem my age. His facial hair is a little over-oiled.

“I’ll just carry it, thanks,” he replies, carefully slipping the record he’d just bought under his arm. It’s a vintage copy of _Sweetheart of the Rodeo_ , seventy-five dollars retail. If I were him, I would’ve taken the bag. As he walks out, I pull out my phone. One unread message – from Karkat.

I said earlier that things have improved since that incident three weeks back; this is just what has caused that drastic improvement. I have no idea what Karkat saw in me that day, after I quite literally insulted his _artwork_ , but we’ve been texting ever since, and I feel as if I’ve never been happier in my life. I’ve been carrying around my phone like a prom queen hangs onto her bright-pink, sparkly clutch, just waiting for his next message. Maybe I should reconsider my clear phone case. Pink and sparkly sounds like a dream in the realm of ironic phone cases.

But, I digress. Something I’ve realized over text is just how well the two of us seem to match up, even just as friends. Karkat and I have a pretty similar sense of humor, and his interests in writing music and singing mesh incredibly with my own in mixing and analyzing music. He still feels way out of league, yeah, but texting him is easy. I find myself being wittier and evenly matching his flirtatiousness – to a degree, anyway. Being a writer, he’s a lot more of a word-smith than I am, even if I dabble in the occasional writing of a sick rap.

With no one in line to check out, I unlock my phone, leaning against the counter.

 

Even after three weeks, the all-caps text catches me off guard a little bit; Karkat told me that he had a long history of wrecking and losing his phones, so he’d started buying those forty-dollar ones that were only good for texts and calls – the most recent one, however, he’d thrown against a wall, and apparently it was stuck on caps lock. I’m fairly sure I laughed until I wheezed when he told me.

Beyond the hilarity of the constant caps, the contents of the message send a flutter through my chest. I grip my phone tighter, taking a deep breath. God, I feel like the protagonist of some shitty romance movie – move over, Bridget Jones, Dave Strider’s diary is going to be a hell of a lot more interesting. I make a mental note to see if I can find a pink, sparkly diary to _match_ the phone case I’m going to invest in. Oh, the sweet, sweet, irony.

I glance up at the time; about an hour until Karkat would be waiting outside the record store. I push down a grin, biting my lip.

We’d finally decided to go out for the first time, today, and it was totally on a whim. He texted me last night, after a concert, saying he had cancelled his night plans for today – and asking if I’d like to have dinner with him after my shift. I had honestly started to believe it was never going to happen, and even though we flirted, it seemed like we were in kind of an awkward spot – at least to me. He definitely looms over me when it comes to his standing socially, not to mention how attractive he is. But, as Tuii gets more and more popular – showing up on indie radio stations, doing interviews about their signing, having night after night of concerts at more and more expensive venues – I can’t help but feel that I fall a little short of what Karkat would want.

There’s a sort of warm hope that blooms in my chest at the idea that this date could be proof that I might have a chance with him.

Over the next hour left in my shift, I text Karkat on-and-off between helping customers. By the time it reaches eight, their numbers dwindle, and soon I’m sitting alone at the counter, waiting for the clock to strike so I can close for the night. I decided this morning to close at 7:55pm, to give myself five minutes to prepare myself for meeting Karkat outside. It sounds stupid, but my boss is pretty particular about things.

Nonetheless, there’s no one inside at 7:55pm, when my alarm goes off, so I saunter over to the door, locking it and flipping the sign to read “CLOSED”. I find myself taking deep breaths as I make my way to the back room. I slip into the bathroom, flicking on the lights. They flicker before turning on. This bathroom is for employees only – meaning myself and the guy who owns the place. Because of that, it’s pretty disgusting. My boss hires someone to clean it every couple of months, but in between it’s an absolute wreck. It’s usually fairly grimy; the mirror smudged, and the sink covered in build-up and water stains. It also smells like piss. I don’t like to spend time in here.

I look in the mirror. I wasn’t sure how to dress this morning, so I just wore whatever I could find, and it’s a little wrinkled. I pull at my t-shirt, which luckily, being black with a huge print in the center, doesn’t really show the wrinkles. Underneath it, I’m wearing a striped long-sleeved shirt, because I’d decided on a whim that today would be a day to be incredibly insecure about the scars that seem to stretch endlessly up and across the lengths of my arms. Reaching down, I make sure my jeans are cuffed neatly, before moving closer to the mirror to inspect my face. I can’t do much about the freckles, blemishes, and scars that litter it, but I can fix my messy hair. With a couple swipes of my fingers, the straight strands fall back into place.

I absentmindedly pick at my red nail-polish, which was already coming off. They were never really neat in the first place – my hands always shook too much to get them to look right. My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I step away from the mirror and out of the bathroom, taking a deep breath of clean air.

As I read Karkat’s message, I suddenly become acutely aware of just how nervous I am for this date. I take a deep, shaky breath, remembering to keep it cool, and head through the showroom. Pushing open the door, I let it lock behind me. The cold air hits me hard, and I realize I probably should’ve brought a coat today. I shove my hands in my jean pockets.

“Don’t you have a fucking jacket?” says a voice, and I turn to my left. Karkat is standing beside me, and unlike the last time I saw him, he’s all bundled up. His messy hair and ears are mostly covered by a beanie, and he’s tucked neatly into a black pea-coat and scarf. Appropriately, though; it’s really fucking cold. He’s smiling at me, despite the seeming harshness of his question, and my heart melts a little. It takes me a second to be able to answer him; god, he’s attractive, and suddenly words are very hard.

“Nah,” I manage, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, “it’s not even that cold outside, Kit-Kat.”

The nickname is a result of our text conversations, and it’s almost odd to say it out loud – not in a bad way, though. It rolls off my tongue, and it makes things feel a little less nerve-wracking.

Karkat rolls his eyes.

“I can practically _hear_ you shivering, shitweasel,” as he speaks, he starts unbuttoning his coat. I immediately raise my hands in protest.

“Woah, hey, you don’t have to – ” I begin, but he’s already throwing the coat over my shoulders. Once it’s on to his liking, he moves back to my side.

“There, now you won’t freeze to death,” he says triumphantly, before glancing at me with a little smirk playing on his lips, “besides, you look good in my clothes.”

My eyes dart away from his gaze, and with the way I move my head, he can tell despite my shades. His coat is warm, and it smells like him. I nuzzle into it a little, feeling heat rushing to my cheeks. He laughs a little at my clear embarrassment, a charming, melodic laugh, and I suddenly wish I had the ability to capture sounds in my mind.

“So,” Karkat starts, taking me by the hand and tugging me down the street, “I remember you saying you liked Malaysian, and I found this place not too far from here that’s supposed to be really fucking amazing.”

I feel myself smiling, and I let it happen. 

“Yeah, that sounds awesome.”

As we continue walking, I realize he hasn’t let go of my hand, and it makes a warmth grow in my chest. Holding his hand is really, really nice, and I find myself wishing that we’ll get to do it more in the future.

We make aimless small-talk, on the way to the Malaysian restaurant. About my day at work, about his show last night. It’s nice to hear about his day in his voice; there’s a sort of magic to hearing it, rather than reading about it. Memorizing the way he speaks, how his voice flows. It’s lovely; smooth and rough all at the same time, in the most perfect way.

When we reach the Malaysian restaurant, Karkat clicks his tongue.

“Shit,” he mutters. There’s a huge line outside, and the place appears to be packed. He turns to me, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t make a reservation,” he confesses, “to be honest, I put off deciding where to go until tonight, to give me something to do while I waited. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I respond immediately, shrugging. The idea of him wanting to occupy the time before he met up with me – perhaps to make time go faster, or to dispel nerves – is comforting.

“I don’t live that far from here,” Karkat turns and looks up the street, “I know it’s not fancy, but we can get take-out or something. It beats waiting outside in the cold.”

“Yeah,” I offer him a smile, “that sounds great.”

“You’re sure?” he raises an eyebrow at me, and I can hear a bit of doubt in his voice, “I’m sure we can find _something_ out here, if you want.”

“Nah, I’d like to relax a little, it sounds nice,” I squeeze his hand, and I see his mouth twitch upward at the movement.

“Okay, let’s go, then,” pulling on me a little, he leads me down the street. He wasn’t kidding when he said he lived close; the building he lives in is quite literally just a block away. He unlocks the door, showing me upstairs. He lives on the third floor.

Inside, it’s really, really clean. The apartment obviously needs some work, but nothing he would be able to do; it’s just the area, and the fact that at our age, there isn’t much better we can afford. For the building, though, it’s really cozy, and Karkat’s interests line the walls – bands, movies. I can see a guitar sitting in the corner of the sitting room, and on his coffee table are neat stacks of papers and journals.

After I pull off his coat, and he removes his beanie and scarf, Karkat invites me to sit on the couch beside him, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He seems to instinctively run his fingers across the cracked screen, as if he could wipe away the damage from throwing his phone against the wall. Opening the drawer in the coffee table, he pulls out a couple menus, examining them closely. I lean against the soft fabric of the blanket hanging over the back of the couch, just taking Karkat in.

I could stare at him forever; memorizing his features. His hair is messy from being under the beanie, and his skin is slightly tinged with color from the cold. As he makes his way through the menus, he plays with the end of one of his snakebites with his teeth.

He glances up at me.

“What are you looking at?” he makes a face. I let a little, breathy laugh roll past my lips, the sort that’s nothing more than a bit of air escaping my nose and mouth.

“You,” I reply, shrugging.

He rolls his eyes, but I can see his lips twitch. A little more color spreads across his cheeks. It’s cute.

“Do you like Thai?” he asks, after a moment, before adding, “it’s my favorite.”

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, “I haven’t had it in a while, though, so just get whatever you like.”

He nods, punching the number of the restaurant into his phone with a little too much ferocity. I absentmindedly think to myself he could get his phone stuck on caps-lock just like that, without even throwing it. He orders the food with such a speed and practice that it’s clear that he wasn’t kidding about loving Thai – which makes me all the more excited to eat it with him. When he hangs up, he puts the phone down on the coffee table, turning to look at me. He raises an arm, inviting me to come closer.

Scooting into his open arms, I lean against him. He’s warm – and in not just a physical sense. He radiates a sort of light, so much so that I can see it glisten in his brown eyes. Even though it’s just our first date, I feel like I’ve known him forever. It could be because I’ve heard all his music, I think absently, but it seems deeper than that, even.

It’s odd to know so much about him. I know he didn’t write every song, but he so easily bears his thoughts to the world that it strikes a sort of emotional chord in me – that’s something I’ve always been taught was wrong, at least for me to do. For Striders to do. Yet, sitting next to Karkat, I feel a sort of safety that invites the openness he offers in his own work, outlined by the quiet privacy of his comfortable apartment.

I turn to face him, and he reaches up, running a hand through my hair. I let out a long, content breath, closing my eyes. His hand stops at the arm of my shades.

“Why are you still wearing these?” he asks, quietly.

I feel myself tense, and I can tell that Karkat does, as well, because his other hand traces a calming circle on my shoulder.

“I always wear them, dude,” I try to play it off, though the awkwardness in my voice is painfully obvious, “gotta keep the cool-kid aesthetic.”

“Dave,” Karkat’s voice is punctuated by a sort of seriousness that is so laced with concern it is unfamiliar to me. I want to take them off, with that tone in his voice; seeing the slight pain in his face, as if I don’t trust him. But, the hesitation persists – I’ve for so long been taught that this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Bearing my emotions is wrong. Taking off my shades is wrong.

But, looking at Karkat, my mind circles the other things I was taught, the things I ran away from; how I couldn’t be gay, I was told, or how I had to take care of myself, always. And, looking into Karkat’s eyes, hearing his voice, feeling the way his touches are so gentle, I realize that letting myself _feel_ was just another thing taken away from me.

“Yeah, okay,” I mutter, swallowing thickly, “take them off.”

Slowly, carefully, he removes my shades. I blink, adjusting to the light in the room. Karkat meets my eyes, and I search his face, finding no distinct emotion. I know how my eyes look; I’ve always hated them. Untreated injury turned them from blue to red, but a sort of splotchy crimson that bled out into my scleras in ugly spots.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Karkat murmured, but as his thumb followed the thin scar moving across my cheek, then tracing across the thick, ugly one splitting my lower lip, I could see it in his warm eyes, in his solemn expression. A question. _What happened_. A question I wouldn’t answer; not now, not on our first date – but a question everyone always had, right from the start.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings, and we both meet eyes for a second, in confusion, before it hits us. The Thai. Standing, Karkat pulls away from me, going to answer the door. He pays the deliveryman, taking the bags of food in his arms and carrying them over to the table. I move his binders and journals out of the way, making room.

As we eat, our conversation turned more casual again, thankfully. I always carry a sort of awkward worry with me that once people see my scars, they’ll have a sort of incurable pity for me that can’t be resolved. However, Karkat and I slip easily into fun banter, leaving us both smiling and laughing as we eat.

When we finish, Karkat puts the remaining food in his fridge. Upon coming back to the room, however, he doesn’t sit down, instead grabbing one of his journals and stepping over to his guitar.

“Gonna give me a private concert, Karkles?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows.

“Yeah, right, fucker,” he laughs, radiant and warm, rolling his eyes at me, “I did want to play something for you, though.”

I feel my heart swell a little.

“Wait, really?”

“Well, yeah, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s not perfect yet, I just wrote it,” he picks up the guitar, slipping it on, “but, I … wrote it for you.”

It feels like my brain short circuits a little, as it hits me. Karkat wrote me a song – we had only known each other for three weeks, but he wrote a song for me. I don’t know what to say, and I feel heat rushing to my cheeks.

“I know we haven’t known each other that long,” he starts, making himself comfortable beside me, “but it feels like I’ve already known you a lifetime. Plus, I did promise I’d write my next album about you, didn’t I?”

He offers a nervous smile, and I recall what he’d first said to me three weeks ago. I just nod, a hand on my chest – it feels like my heart might fly away. He shifts a little, before strumming the first note on the guitar.

The song is raw, in the most beautiful sense of the word – and when he starts to sing, I pull every word close to me, intent on never letting it go. I’ve never heard him sing live before, and it’s so much more enchanting than a CD could ever express. His eyes closed as he works through the chords, there’s a look of bliss on his face that is entrancing.

And, knowing that each word is for me – it makes my insides flutter and my heart soar in a way I’ve never felt before. I can only stare, silent and motionless, feeling the song rush through me like a pleasant wave.

When he finishes, he opens his eyes, smiling at me, before his face melts a little.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he pulls off the guitar, moving to wipe away my tears with the backs of his hands. I didn’t even realize I was crying. His expression is so soft as he looks at me, “was it really that bad?”

“It was beautiful,” I mutter, looking up at him, and his smile widens.

“I’m glad you like it,” he replies, and I want to correct him, tell him I love it, but I can’t even find it in me to speak. He cups my cheek in his palm, his hand slightly wet from my tears.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and I nod.

Our lips connect, and I feel music flow between us as our lips move against each other, a melody flushing through our bodies as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. When we pull apart, I press our foreheads together, meeting his eyes.

In them, beyond the warmth, I see a sort of lyrical eternity, and I fall into it, resigning to a sweet infinity in music notes.


End file.
